


conveyance

by presumenothing (justjoy)



Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 19:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/presumenothing
Summary: Wato hasn’t asked, of course, but she’s fairly sure that Sherlockdoesin fact know how to drive, even if she might not have have a license. It seems like one of those things that would’ve been allotted space in her mental closet if only for emergency situations, alongside lists of the best chocolatiers in any given ward of Tokyo.(Which, Sherlock would likely argue, qualifies as a kind of emergency preparedness all by itself.Having witnessed firsthand the ramifications of a chocolate-deprived Sherlock, Wato… can’t disagree with that, not really.)





	conveyance

**Author's Note:**

> what can I say? first fic in the fandom, entirely longer than intended, unedited with minimal research, can't title to save my life, but I couldn't help myself. enjoy! (hopefully)
> 
> [set ambiguously post-canon and probably established relationship, but read as you like]

Sherlock likes walking between places, when they can afford the time for it.

It’s one of the first and last things that Wato recalls about her, amidst the pieces of her mind that feel like they’ve been pieced together from shrapnel only to be blown apart again.

Wato hasn’t asked, of course, but she’s fairly sure that Sherlock  _does_  in fact know how to drive, even if she might not have have a license. It seems like one of those things that would’ve been allotted space in her mental closet if only for emergency situations, alongside lists of the best chocolatiers in any given ward of Tokyo.

(Which, Sherlock would likely argue, qualifies as a kind of emergency preparedness all by itself.

Having witnessed firsthand the ramifications of a chocolate-deprived Sherlock, Wato… can’t disagree with that, not really.)

But whatever the case is, Sherlock is happy enough to occupy the passenger seats of Shibata’s or Kento’s cars, leaving her hands to flick and flitter freely through the air. And she certainly has no issues with flagging down a taxi whenever they need to get somewhere in short order, either – a habit that Wato has found herself increasingly and unwittingly adopting, much to the dismay of her thrifty sensibilities.

(Not that the Tachibanas hadn’t been reasonably well-to-do, even with all the free or heavily-subsidised aid they distributed at the hospital, but. Still. Taxis are _expensive,_ no less so in Tokyo than in Sapporo.

Wato can practically hear her mother’s incessant nagging already, if she so much as thinks about it.)

The trains are technically always an option, of course, even if the sheer density of Tokyo’s subway lines still boggles Wato’s mind sometimes. She’s hardly a country bumpkin, whatever her fellow residents at Todai used to say – yes, her hometown might only have three lines rather than thirteen, but where Sherlock can rattle off the shortest train route between two points with just a thought Wato can do the same with a map search. Albeit a fair bit slower, of course.

Then again, very few things can go faster than Sherlock’s mind, and it still gets the job done, so. That’s the least of Wato’s problems, anyway.

They’ve actually taken the train a couple times by now, in fact – all but once in pursuit of one case or another, to absolutely nobody’s surprise. Often it’s because they have to retrace someone’s route, whether victim or suspect, though last month they’d spent two late nights crisscrossing between lines in the name of helping one of Hatano-san’s friends find a ring she’d lost (for real, this time). So Wato’s taken to carrying around two IC cards loaded with at least a thousand yen each in her purse, just in case, because Sherlock never brings her own but she’s hardly the type to queue for tickets either.

On the whole, though, between the grating echo of underground tunnels and constant hordes of commuters, travelling by train just… isn’t an ideal situation all around, with Sherlock’s – and, if Wato is to be honest, sometimes her own – low tolerance for either.

(The one exception being a very early morning trip Sherlock had taken her on, after a night when neither of them had managed to sleep even a wink. Wato doesn’t think she’s ever _seen_ the Yamanote Line this empty, with more than enough vacant seats to go around, let alone ridden on the train while the sky still hangs half-dark outside the windows.

She startles at the sudden lean of Sherlock’s head against her shoulder, until she realises that it’s to disguise the low murmur of her voice as she tells her little things about their fellow commuters – none of it significant, just scraps of thought about where they’ve come from or where they’re headed, peppered with the odd comment about each of the stations they stop at, and without quite realising it Wato finds herself being shaken awake some time later.

She barely registers the significantly increased crowd in the train car before Sherlock’s tugging gently at her hand, an odd half-smile on her face. “C’mon,” she says, over Wato’s stifled yawn as she stumbles to her feet, “I know a good breakfast place around here, they should be open by now.”

“Breakfast?” repeats Wato, as they weave their way out of the station, against the influx of the working crowd. “I thought you didn’t eat breakfast.”

Sherlock still hasn’t let go of her hand, only flips her grip around so that she’s now walking backwards instead. Either this place is nearby, or she’s really that familiar with the route, Wato supposes.

“But _you_ do,” Sherlock says, and smiles with the faintest of shrugs – and this smile, Wato definitely recognises. “They serve decently acceptable coffee, at any rate.”

Wato feels her eyebrows rise, but before she can reply they arrive at an otherwise unremarkable cafe where the breakfast does turn out to be as good as promised, though Wato can’t comment on the third of it that was stolen in bits and pieces by Sherlock.

Wato lets her, of course. It’s not like she hadn’t already ordered extra anyway.)

All that aside, though, it seems to be moments like these when Sherlock is at her liveliest, when the light in her eyes shines the brightest – when it’s just the two of them walking beside each other, Sherlock’s hands leaving her coat pockets to outline some particular point of importance before falling back to her sides, with the occasional detour when her attention gets caught by something or another.

So perhaps it’s the freedom of it, then, Wato muses, the ability to let their footsteps trace the path of Sherlock’s thoughts, arrow-straight or winding.

Which leads almost directly to wondering whether Sherlock knows how to cycle, and _that_ in turn leads to imagining Sherlock on a – undoubtedly branded – bicycle, haring off after a clue with her coat flapping dramatically behind her, hair catching in the wind, and –

Wato can’t quite stifle a few giggles at the sheer hilarity of that image, and Sherlock pauses mid-word to give her a look of rare puzzlement. “What?”

“No,” Wato replies in all earnesty, managing to bully her expression back into something more normal. “Just thought of something funny, that’s all.”

That answer’s not enough for Sherlock, obviously, but fortunately Wato’s phone chooses that moment to ring. It’s the manager at her current part-time job, calling to reshuffle some shifts for the next week, so Wato steps into the shade of a building to see her phone calendar better, and by the time she hangs up Sherlock’s nowhere in sight.

Or – no, just there, one alley past where they’d stopped, Wato corrects herself, forcefully tamping down on the instinctive surge of panic she gets these days whenever she doesn’t know where Sherlock is.

Sherlock’s crouched low amidst the afternoon shadows, unheeding of the way her coat brushes against the ground, and Wato’s already hurrying over with an apology on her lips when she sees the distinct outline of a stray cat curled up right in front of Sherlock, looking back just as intently.

Wato watches Sherlock extend a hand slowly forward, to be met with several careful sniffs, then drops her gaze back to the phone still in her hand.

_Might be slightly delayed. Sorry,_ she quickly texts to Inspector Reimon, because Sergeant Shibata is in all likelihood busy with three different things right now. She only waits long enough to see the inspector’s reply before putting her phone away again and going to join Sherlock, who’s now moved on to petting the cat.

“It seems to like you rather much,” Wato whispers, because it’s true – both of them seem fully content with this arrangement.

Sherlock’s lips curve into that smile again. “Well, it’s got fairly good taste, then.”

“Hm,” Wato answers, entirely noncommittal, though it feels like her expression has given her away.

The cat purrs, its eyes drifting closed, and Wato decides that she doesn’t mind, anyway.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think!! comments are coffee for my ascension to the next plane
> 
> [[tumblr](http://presumenothing.tumblr.com/)]


End file.
